Entangled Alliances 7: Falling
by SheriAnn
Summary: Lucas faces the most difficult decision of his life.


_Disclaimer: This is an amateur work meant in no way to infringe upon the rights of Amblin Entertainment or the Sci-Fi Channel. Lucas Wolenczak, Nathan Bridger, seaQuest, etc., are all the sole property of Amblin Entertainment and its cohorts in Hollywood. The Non-Allied Powers are the products of this authorís own deranged mind, as is the Ulysses . . ._

_Alternative Reality: some elements have been changed from canonical tradition. For example, Lucas Wolenczak graduated from Stanford with an M.S. in Artificial Intelligence, as well as a subject concentration in physics/mathematics. Some dates may appear suspiciously outside canon. In addition, because of the Non-Allied Powers (situated in a place called "Dominia," another element outside the seaQuest canon), this work can be seen as an Alternative Universe piece._

_Sequel: "Entangled Alliances" is a sequel to--yeah, you guessed correctly--"Entanglements with the Enemy." Let me know what you think of the new title (it used to be "More Entanglements with the Enemy"! I'd love to hear them!_

_Rating:**PG-13**, rated as such because of some adult themes and language._

_Summary: Lucas plays boom-boom once again with his vortex. The only real question is . . .who is his enemy? :-)_

_Copyright 1999 by SheriAnn_   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Entangled Alliances   


Part Seven   
Falling

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_Thud._

Seconds of silence. Lucas heard breathing: heavy breathing. The breath wheezed, squeezed out of lungs constricted. Sounds of breath labored, panting, struck the walls, then reverberated back towards his ears, gasping.

Violence. Cruelty. A scream: first a low moan, a resisting moan . . . then a cry of pain, of anguish.

_Stop. Stop. Stop!_

Spring in the mountains . . . spring flowers blossoming . . .

Blossoming with vivid colors everywhere. Mountain creeks shivering through the forest paths. Animals thudding against the . . . thudding against . . . _Oh, God, stop, stop!_

Red--scarlet--splashing across the mountains, coating the ground in beautiful flowers . . .

_Ssssmmack._

More mountains. Air clean, beautiful, pure: hiking. Nature all around, the green of the earth shining brightly as the sun's rays beat down upon the soil.

Beating. Beating, crackling. Sound of panting in the air. Sounds of screams filtering through . . .

Bone splintering, cracking. Shattering.

_Shatter_. Lucas heard the sound, but he tried to block it from his consciousness. It was the sound of bone thudding against bone, of flesh broken. It was the sound of someone . . .

He buried the thought deep within his mind, hiding--searching for some place of safety where the thoughts couldn't find him, where his own guilt could escape. His fingers trembled. Shakily, he combed blanched fingers through his hair . . . again, then again. The fingers spasmed, flexed helplessly.

It wasn't happening. It wasn't happening. It _wasn't_ happening.

_Smack_.

The sound echoed in his ears, echoed against his mind. His thoughts ruptured: God.

His head dropped down, bent at an angle. Tears streamed down his cheeks, dropping silently on his shirt. Oh, hell. More screams penetrated his hearing. Shivers struck. Poised at the edge of breaking, his nerves stretched. A cry, a hideous laugh, an arrow straight into his heart . . . his jangled mind screeched in agony.

A hand cautiously touched his back. A voice whispered at him, "It isn't your fault. It isn't something you could have stopped . . ."

But, oh, Lord, he knew better.

Not his fault? Oh, wasn't that funny. Ha, ha.

He *flaming knew better.*

Whose fault was it?

Noyce's?

Was it Noyce's fault that Thomas had zeroed in on him and commenced a war campaign on the Admiral's body?

Was it Noyce's fault that, even now, Thomas was staring with gleaming eyes at his victim, triumphant in, at last, making the Admiral howl in pain?

Was it Noyce's fault that Lucas was an idiot?

Lucas shifted, self-hatred, self-recrimination taunting him. Oh, what a fine genius he was. What a fine specimen of intellectual performance had been seen today! What a superb thinker, what a marvelous strategist he was!

Walking straight into that bastard's hands . . .

Walking right into the General's trap--and ignoring everyone else as he did it: ignoring Bridger's warning, ignoring Dr. Westphalen's alarmed grasp at his arm. Ignoring everything but his own desire to stop Noyce's pain, he had moved. The cruel irony shook him: he had caused Noyce's pain by trying to end it.

Bridger's arms circled his shoulders. He ignored the soft words, so gentle, so easy to believe: "He would have done it whether or not you tried to stop him. There's nothing you could have done . . ."

Nothing he could have done, nothing . . . nothing . . .

Helplessness gnawed at him.

Well, what the hell was he going to do when Thomas turned his eyes to Dr. Westphalen?

To Bridger?

What was he supposed to do then? Simply . . . sit back and hope to God no permanent damage was done?

Was he supposed to sit back even as Bridger's screams tormented the air?

Rocking back and forth, back and forth, Lucas did the only thing he could: he retreated deep within his own mind, to where no one could reach him. He silenced the shouts of pain, burrowing so far within himself that the world seemed to disappear.

Yet, somehow, the screams still registered deep inside his mind . . . the screams were still there, despite what he did to erase them.

*****

  
  
  


Noyce wavered in his seat, staring dully in front of himself with unfocused, hazy eyes. Blood lazily trickled down his forehead, from the corner of his mouth, from his nose. Blood even wept from his left ear, sliding a tiny drop at a time down his neck: drip, drip, drip.

His eyes were swollen, bruised. Lucas was amazed that the Admiral could still see through them at all. Noyce somehow still had the strength, the audacity, to stare up at Thomas with hatred--despite the fact that Lucas doubted he could actually see the General.

Lucas was just glad that Thomas had quit hitting Noyce in the face. The sounds of bone breaking, flesh hooked against Thomas's hard knuckles . . . Lucas shivered. He hoped never to hear the sound again.

Of course, he wasn't entirely certain Thomas's latest tricks were any better. Drugs were Thomas's newest strategy. The name of the drug shot shivers straight through Lucas's spine: Diphorline-Pyroxine. This was the same crap he'd been given on the _Ulysses_--the same crap that had made him stare listlessly at a wall for God alone knew how long. Bridger had said it was at least six hours. And that was only one of the effects. He remembered not being able to move . . . then feeling pain blistered through his veins. It hurt to think that Thomas was using the same stuff on Noyce.

It hurt even more to know for what reasons Thomas was using it.

But the bastard hadn't even _asked_ Noyce any questions. Thomas hadn't demanded information, secrets, codes, or anything of the sort. Hell, given Thomas's position in the government, Lucas knew the . . . monster didn't even need to ask for secrets. He already had access to all Noyce might know.

Information was trivial to him. What Thomas wanted was shock value. He wanted to shock Lucas right into betraying everything he knew and loved . . . everything.

Lucas flicked a nervous glance at Thomas as a long silence stretched between Noyce's ever-resounding screams. Thomas just sat and smirked right back, casting several triumphant glances in Lucas's general direction. Feeling Lucas's eyes on him, Thomas slowly looked towards Noyce. A subtle smile lifted the left corner of his mouth.

Deliberately, Thomas moved his hand towards Noyce. The Admiral simply watched the hand drifting towards him, then swallowed hard as the hand clamped onto his shoulder.

Seconds passed. Bridger sat beside Lucas, his body tense . . . wanting to help, but knowing it wouldn't help.

Bridger had already tried to run interference between Thomas and Noyce several times. He'd run between them; he'd offered his own body instead. He'd even tried tackling the General. However, Thomas wasn't an idiot. He had his personal bodyguard-soldiers with him. Thomas had just laughed, seeming much amused, as one of his bodyguards tossed Bridger back onto the floor.

Lucas knew that, eventually, it would be Dr. Westphalen and the Captain up there.

And he still didn't know what he was going to do when that happened.

The hand stopped; carefully, in a measured pace, it traced its way up to Noyce's hair. Thomas then whipped Noyce's head back . . . a tortured cry ripped from Noyce's throat as Thomas's fist cracked into his skull.

_Screams, screams, screams . . ._

Lucas felt his stomach tighten, sharp pain knifing through his own stomach as Thomas's fist suddenly smacked into Noyce's stomach. He thought everything must be breaking, tearing apart, with Thomas's steady beating.

Agony. Pain. More cries of anguish.

Lucas's vision wavered, darkened around the edges. This was _his_ fault. This was _his_ doing.

The Admiral screamed and screamed and screamed . . . the Admiral's voice bled through the air, hauntingly filling the room's silence even when he wasn't screaming.

God, he had to do something. He had to do something . . .

****

More agony pierced the room's silence.

This time, it was Alicia. Again. For the third time.

Lucas didn't particularly like Alicia Noyce; he still remembered what she'd done on the _Ulysses_. He still remembered the gun she'd pointed his way. He remembered her herding his friends into a makeshift brig, locking them away as she prepared to steal the _Ulysses_. Worse, he remembered the drugs Nelson--at her request--had fed into his veins . . . and then there was Brigg. She couldn't be held responsible for Brigg, but Lucas still managed to blame her, despite his mind's recognition that it was completely unfair. Even now, he felt anger when thinking of her. Her mission aboard the _Ulysses_ had led to his being tortured at the hands of that mad-ass Captain Brigg.

But he didn't think anyone deserved this kind of treatment. Alicia was barely able to breathe; hell, he didn't understand how she _was_ breathing, given the number of times Thomas kept hitting her in the ribs. He was amazed anything resembling a ribcage remained.

Uneasily, Lucas shifted positions on the floor. Guilt nagged at him as he tried looking at anything in the room not covered with blood or battered by Thomas's hands. It seemed almost everything, almost everyone, had blood smudged somewhere upon them. Even Bridger had a trace of blood on his shirt.

Even Bridger . . .

Lucas stopped the thought, swallowing hard and wincing as the movement hurt his throat. He suspected that, soon, Bridger would have a hell of a lot more than that tiny dot of blood covering his shirt. But Lucas . . . he couldn't see any way of avoiding it.

No way but doing as Thomas asked.

And that wasn't a choice. Never.

_Thwap_. Thomas struck Alicia in the face, his large Academy ring scraping across her skin and drawing blood. Lucas flinched, wishing he were the one being hit instead. He could handle the pain if it were inflicted on his own body; watching it inflicted on someone else . . . it was the hardest thing Lucas had ever had to watch. Short of reversing roles with Alicia, Lucas wished he could block his ears, his eyes, to what was happening.

The blood trickled down Alicia's narrow face, joining even more blood as it splashed against the floor.

Lucas's heart wrenched for Nelson as he saw the man's face. Lines creased his skin, tears running helplessly down his cheeks. From the short time they'd been together, Lucas knew Alicia and Nelson were close--perhaps even closer than he'd imagined. Yet, like Lucas himself, Nelson refused to give in, to yield, to the General's torture. Nelson wouldn't give the bastard the right of seeing him betray everything he believed in.

Lucas followed Nelson's example and armored himself against what he was hearing.

_Schwack_. Alicia cried out, yelping, though she was almost unconscious. The sound carried straight to Lucas's heart. He squeezed his eyes shut.

If he gave the information to Thomas, his friends would no longer suffer.

Certainly, that much was true. Thomas would have no reason to torture his friends, for he would have what he wanted so badly. He would probably leave Noyce alone, as well as Bridger and Westphalen.

Lucas suddenly snorted.

Unfortunately, he also wouldn't have any reason for keeping them alive. Lucas had seen enough of this type of thing--hostages taken purposefully to hold over someone's head until that person behaved as requested--to know that, generally, there was only one ending: bloodshed. Death. Murder.

_Whack_. Alicia didn't even cry this time.

Nelson stirred across from him, a muscle twitching in his hand. His fist whitened into chalk.

Lucas wouldn't . . .

_Crack_. The left wrist angled to the side, dangling lopsidedly, a broken twig attached only by skin . . .

Lucas shuddered.

He wouldn't let his friends down like that. He _would not_ let them down by giving into Thomas's plans.

_Agony: throbbing, knifing agony._ Alicia's cries hammered at his ears.

Nerves seething, aching for escape, aching for anything to hit, Lucas forced his hands to his side. His nails dug into his palms: deeper, deeper. Alicia's howl rose throughout the room. Deeper his nails clawed. Blood ringed his fingernails. The tortured cries continued, tearing through a throat long since battered by the sounds of pain escaping it.

He wanted to run to her, to push Thomas away, to ease the pain. He wanted to do something . . . anything. But he couldn't. He couldn't. To do anything would give Thomas exactly what . . .

_Crrrack._ Something else broke. Lucas couldn't tell what. He didn't know if he wanted that knowledge.

God.

He concentrated hard. He had to think. He had to think his way through this.

Couldn't give Thomas what he wanted . . . couldn't do it . . .

Had to think of something else. Lucas concentrated on his latest vortex readings . . .

Sharply, he crushed the thought. _No._ No, no, no. He wouldn't think of that damned invention of his. Would that he had never invented it. Would that he were dead and at the bottom of the sea rather than . . .

More shrieking. More cries of pain. Increasingly, Lucas felt his mind slipping, retreating: he felt like he was about to join Alicia's cries any moment now, his own voice a chorus to her screams.

_The vortex. Must think of the vortex._

_NO_. In confusion, Lucas shook his head. _No_. The screams were making it increasingly difficult to think, to catch his own thoughts.

He shouldn't think of the vortex.

God, he was so confused. He just wanted silence. A moment of it, a breath of it . . . anything to get this godawful confusion out of his mind.

What the hell had he been thinking?

The vortex. Yeah, that was right. He frowned, trying to block the sounds of hitting from his mind. What about the vortex? Oh . . . the vortex was the reason he was here . . . it was the reason for Thomas's actions.

If anything, he should be thinking of how to destroy everything he had ever written on the bloody . . .

More screams. He squeezed his eyes shut until spots danced behind his eyelids. He needed something else to consider . . . just something else. There was that problem with the seaQuest's main computer. It only appeared from time to time, but Lucas didn't like recurrent problems. They tended to show up again at the nastiest times possible.

Recurrent problems. Hell. His mind switched back to Thomas: there was a recurrent problem . . .

_Screeching in the background._ Lucas shivered.

Lucas had once owned a bird that sounded like that--a parrot. A beautiful parrot named Mikey. That bird was always getting into things . . . shiny things particularly. Mikey had tried eating his mom's diamond earrings. Mom hadn't been overly pleased with the bird. In fact, his parents had hated the thing. It would start screeching . . . and screeching . . .

And fists would fly.

Hell, fists.

Fists pounded into Alicia's side. Lucas hid from the sound of pain in her voice, the slamming of her body against the floor.

His father's fists suddenly blurred with Thomas's fists. Lucas's mind curled tighter: protected, unreachable.

Damn.

Alicia again. Himself as a small child. A darkened room, stuffy, the menacing steps of his father echoing towards him . . . bridging the time and distance between now and then to once more grab him . . .

Nausea. Swallowing hard, Lucas watched as his two worlds suddenly collapsed together: his father, Thomas, beating. One image superimposed over the other until both seemed almost the same.

_Cry of pain._

Reality again. The present. Alicia in Thomas's grasp.

Lord, was he going mad? Was this, then, madness?

One finger broke, then another . . . then another. Alicia continued to scream, tears of pain running down her face, intermingling with the blood already coating her skin. She whimpered, rocking back and forth in her chair.

Hell. Lucas cringed inwardly as he waited for Thomas's next move.

Thomas pushed her to the floor, carelessly stepping over her--as if she were garbage not even worthy of his consideration.

And then Thomas's eyes turned to Westphalen.

*****

  
  
  
  


Thomas's eyes bore into Kristin's eyes, into her skull. Lucas swallowed hard, trembling, remembering that same gaze from when Thomas had attacked him earlier: the eyes were dark, unreadable, almost insane--and shining more brightly than they should have. Yet Kristin refused to look away, fierce anger burning through her own gaze. She lifted her chin slightly, back stiff, as he approached her.

Lucas's pulse beat in his ears. He watched, his mouth suddenly dry, as the scene unfolded before him.

If he moved to intervene . . . if he moved to take Kristin's place . . .

Lucas didn't want to finish the thought, but he knew what would happen: he would only give Thomas more reason to hurt Doctor Westphalen. His move to help her would only make matters worse than they already were . . . though he couldn't even begin to imagine things getting much worse.

No, Lucas took that back. He could imagine things getting worse. If Thomas even began to suspect how much hurting Kristin Westphalen would break him, Thomas would continue hurting her. He would hurt her until Lucas's defenses did, indeed, shatter.

Lucas cringed at the thought. No. He couldn't make things worse. He had to stay right where he was.

Yeah. Right where he was. Right while that bastard hurt Kristin . . .

The thought seethed through his mind before he could stop it. He felt his muscles tense, his body unconsciously waiting to leap upon Thomas as the General's feet at last stopped in front of Kristin. Lucas didn't know how much more of this damned _sitting on the sidelines while his friends were HURT_ he could take.

He flexed his fist, briefly noting the dried blood from earlier . . . from when Thomas had interrogated Alicia. However, the small traces of blood on his hand were nothing compared to the blood covering Alicia's face, the floor, her clothing.

Thomas's hand curled into Kristin's hair. He ripped her hair back, forcing her face up towards his own.

Lucas saw Bridger slowly edge his way to Kristin's side, leaving the barely conscious Admiral Noyce in Nelson's hands. His heart caught in his throat.

"Dr. Westphalen," Thomas purred, smiling slightly. Lucas felt his stomach twist. "I'm sure we can wipe that scowl from your face. Easily."

The General's cold eyes turned to Lucas. Lucas buried his feelings as quickly as possible, tightening his face and praying to God his expression betrayed none of his true feelings. But, hell, he'd also been praying that lightening would strike Thomas dead or that the bastard would just keel over from heart failure. So far, neither prayer had come true. He didn't think he'd be so lucky that this prayer was heard.

Without a warning, without so much as a flicker in his dead eyes, Thomas hauled Kristin to her feet, pulling her hair and dragging her towards the chair. Lucas moved, body uncoiling, nearly jumping to his feet . . . until he realized that he couldn't. He stopped, shivering. Ice flowed through his veins as he felt Thomas's gaze on him.

No.

He _couldn't_ help her.

Frack.

Shutting his eyes and wishing he were anywhere but here with anyone but Thomas, Lucas sank back onto the floor. Tears burned his eyes, clung to his lashes. Curling into a tight ball, knees drawn up to his chest, Lucas tried to hide from the sudden gasp he heard Kristin make as her hair was yanked one way, then another.

Kristin yelped. Lucas tried to focus his mind on differential equations.

Kristin screamed. Lucas tried to parse verbs.

Hard bone crackled against skin. Lucas tried to keep the tears from spilling down his cheeks.

Then Lucas heard struggling, cursing, a murmured, "Get the hell away from her, Thomas!"

Something hit the floor--hard.

Lucas's eyes flew open to find Bridger and Thomas grappling on the floor. Their bodies collided with one another, hands reaching for each other's throats. Blood flowed from Thomas's temple as Bridger's fist connected. Thomas reached up to Bridger's neck, then pounded his fist into Bridger's ribs instead. Lucas heard Bridger grunt in surprise, then watched as Thomas's fist hit again and again.

_No no no no no . . ._

Frightened eyes staring helplessly as Thomas increased his attack, Lucas lunged for the two . . .

Only to be stopped as one of Thomas's guards grabbed his arm. Anger lanced through his voice as he yelled at the man. The anger pounded, throbbed in his skull. Fury tore through him; feeling he could kill something, anything, with his bare hands, Lucas reached his right arm back and back and back . . . and punched the man with everything he had.

Agony met the impact of his hand. Something broke against Lucas's knuckles, and there was that sound, the one that always told of extensive damage: the sickening sound of bone and ligaments torn, stripped from one another. The man screamed, voice echoing throughout the room.

Blood flowed down the man's face, gurgling from the smashed side of his nose. Ice blue eyes suddenly glowed with pure hate. His hands reached for Lucas's own neck, his fingers hard, tight. Blood splattered, unheeded, against the floor, against Lucas's clothing, against the guard's uniform. The two fell to the floor. In seconds, Lucas felt himself pinned, felt two hands reach for his throat.

The pressure increased. He struggled against the hands, the claws jabbing into his throat. Blackness started twisting his sight, fading the margins of his vision. More pressure . . . he was gasping, gasping for just one breath.

His fuzzy sight focused on the hate-driven eyes above him. They reminded him of . . . someone's . . . Thomas's . . . God . . .

Vague sounds in the background. His vision steadily deteriorating. Nothing but a hum, a general blackness starting to surround . . .

More vague sounds.

Then a gun shot.   


  


*****

  
  


Reality snapped back into Lucas's mind. He awoke, body trembling helplessly, with one startling realization: he could breathe. His throat burned, but--if he was careful--he could gulp tiny breaths down.

His eyes fluttered open to find a hazy red surrounding him. Everything seemed coated in red: a sticky, thick, warm red. He was floating in a damned sea of red.

His eyes blinked, then refocused.

The ice blue eyes gazed at him: dead. Lifeless.

Red soaked into his clothing, dripped against his skin.

Suddenly, Lucas . . . screamed. He screamed with everything in him, at every horror, every terror, he had ever seen, at every drop of blood spilled uselessly, at every scene of violence he had ever witnessed. The mad cry rang through his skull, through his temples, through every cell in his body . . .

But not a sound whispered from his throat. His lips parted, his heart screamed and screamed and screamed because it could find no other way to handle what he had seen, what he had caused . . .

Blood seeping into the floor.

Blood dripping against him.

Blood . . . blood . . . blood . . .

Lifeless eyes staring at him.

God! Lifeless--eyes.

Shuddering helplessly, Lucas rolled over, watching as the corpse tumbled to the ground with a sickening _thud_. He tore at his clothing, at the blood that dripped from him . . .

Thomas had . . .

Leaning to his far left, Lucas swallowed the bile that burned his raw throat. His eyes met nothing but red. Blood was everywhere: covering him, puddled around the now-lifeless guard who had attacked him. Helplessly, he looked back up, towards Thomas.

He started to hyperventilate.

_No more blood._ Blood already covered him. It already reeked to heaven. To hell. To wherever. _No more no more no more._

Lucas's world tilted, crashing, plummeting around him. Darkness threatened.

Thomas . . . Thomas held a gun. The black gun shook in his hand.

No . . . Thomas's hand didn't shake. It was Lucas's world that shook instead.

Kristin was on the ground, her battered body held by one guard. The guard held her hair firmly in his grasp. Soundlessly, she stared in front of her, her eyes wide with shock. Lucas couldn't even tell if she was truly seeing anything.

Nelson's body sprawled across part of the floor; he was breathing, but unconscious. Blood welled around his nose. One of Thomas's guards crouched over him, fist painted with blood.

And his Captain was . . .

Lucas's throat and chest throbbed, ached. He could barely breathe. Chaotic dots of color spasmed before his eyes.

_Bridger_. Lucas pushed down the fear, the terror, that raced straight through his heart. He forced his mind to register what was happening.

Thomas held a gun to Bridger's head. The Captain breathed raggedly, bending slightly at the waist. Scarlet stained his shirt. His eyes blazed, even as he blinked blood and sweat out of them.

Lucas's eyes suddenly fell on something cold, something softly shining against the blood coating its surface.

His eyes looked back at the Captain, at Dr. Westphalen, at Admiral Noyce . . . even at Nelson and Alicia Noyce.

He looked at the dead body beside him. It no longer bled; it was now dry of life, a husk.

Too much death. Already, there was too much death.

He blinked. He moved towards the dead guard's body, watching as Thomas watched him. Softly, he whispered, words barely loud enough to be heard, "Let h--him go. N--now."

Thomas stared at him, eyes suddenly crinkling at the corners. The General tightened his hold on Bridger, smiling slightly as the Captain cursed helplessly under his breath. Thomas's finger twitched near the trigger.

Silence. Lucas and Thomas stared at one another. Thomas's smile widened, a caricature of mirth as the eyes remained cold, heartless, unyielding. Lucas focused simply on breathing. He silently began counting.

_One . . . two . . . three . . ._

_Four_. Suddenly, the stare ended. Lucas moved. His hand a blur, Lucas grabbed the shiny object that had entranced his attention only moments before; it was stuck in the guard's boot, hidden there for emergency use. It hadn't helped the guard. It would help Lucas, though. Lucas swore it would. He would make it help him.

Precious split seconds passed. Lucas could have sworn time slowed, its ticking ceasing, as he moved. His blood hammered in his own ears, pounding: _throb, throb, throb._ He thought he heard the sound of every heart beating in the room.

Metal hissed in the dead silence of the room. The silence quivered as a knife suddenly appeared in Lucas's hand . . . then as that same hand held the blade to his throat.

Slowly, the knife firmly held against his own throat, he looked back at Thomas. Blood trickled down his throat, a scarlet ribbon against white alabaster, as he forced the blade to bite into his own flesh.

For the first time since their meeting, the General was no longer in control. Blood drained from the man's face as he, too, realized what had happened.

Lucas had just changed the game entirely by making his own life the prize.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
